Xenoblade Chronicles 2: A Piece Of Me, A Piece Of You

This work was commissioned by my patreon @mymaskofshame. Thanks mask!! Morag is a personal favorite of mine, and Brighid is a fave of Oto’s, so it ended up being pretty fun to write!

As always, I appreciate comments, beloved! 😮 You can find out more about me on Patreon, and you can find us on twitter (zoh), (rose), tumblr (zoh), (rose), curious cat (just zoh, for now!). All sorts of places! ❤ But the best thing you can do to help me out is just share stuff you like around, or look it up on AO3. Thank you again!

Diverting Mòrag had been almost criminally easy. The Jewel of Mor Ardain was always busy. Brighid knew that better than anyone, as she managed Mòrag’s schedule—her work, her appointments, her meals, her rest.

In some sense, Brighid was the most powerful person in Mor
Ardain. If a task was to be completed, seen, or approved, it had to go
through her first. And so, when she’d told Mòrag that a proper
inspection and overhaul of hygienic facilities was necessary for the
benefit of the realm, Mòrag had simply nodded, her eyes foggy with
fatigue.

Poor, poor Mòrag. With the joining of the Titans, there
had been countless infrastructure projects to oversee and approve.
Brighid was a blade, but she was consistently astounded by Mòrag’s
capacity for responsibility. Brighid might’ve managed the schedule, but
it was Morag’s drive that compelled her forward.

So much the better, then, that this time she had decided to take matters into her own hands.

When
they arrived at the warm-wooded inn, the keeper didn’t even asked for
Mòrag’s name, she simply bowed. Brighid stepped forwards to ‘show her
Lady the facilities,’ and led Mòrag upstairs, to a beech-wood lined room
full of buckets, cubbies, and towels.

Morag’s gloved hand
lingered on the wooden door frame, its texture glossy and smooth with
time and heat. Though she’d never been there, the inn was strangely
familiar; Rex and the others had painted so vivid a picture of their own
visit, it was almost as if Morag had been with them. Despite herself,
Mòrag allowed a light sigh. Their stories cast a net of enchantment
around this place, she would’ve liked to experience it with them…

But then, it was difficult for a princess, any princess, to allow herself such luxuries, much less one of her… particulars.

Turning to face her, Brighid indicated a low bench. “Sit, please.”

Gently,
Morag shook the cobwebs of fantasy from her head. She was exhausted,
losing the plot. Brighid had brought her here on business. She—they—were
spearheading more projects than she could count. Rebuilding,
revitalization, even a revolutionary new rail system for intra-national
transportation. They’d spent the better part of the past month in board
rooms, state rooms, dining rooms, ball rooms, but still…

…a bathroom?

No,
she was sure this was important; certainly it must be if Brighid said
so. Mor Ardain was on the cusp of technological revolution. Obviously
even the latrines bore consideration—

“—And disrobe, my Lady Mòrag.”

Morag stood to attention. “…Brighid?”

The Lady’s blade furrowed her brow. “Is something wrong, Lady Mòrag?”

“No. That is to say…” Mòrag’s hand hesitated at the collar of her jacket, as if some of the outdoor’s chill still stiffened her bones. The sudden redness of her cheeks was difficult to discern in the small room, illuminated primarily by the pale, preternatural fire of Brighid’s hair. “Come again?”

“Lady Mòrag, if you’d check your agenda, I think
you’ll find that this appointment has been standing for some time.”
Brighid stepped behind her Driver, her lithe movement offering supple
contrast to her imperious tone. “And, given its urgency, I really must
insist that you disrobe and sit.” Brighid was never anything but
calm—her demeanor might even be called icy, but for the warmth of her
body, the flames that lined her, and the heat of her loyalty and
affection for her Driver, the Lady Mòrag. “It is for the good of the
realm, after all.”

What a marvelous riposte of conversation. Morag
seemed to buy it hook, line, and sinker. Yet her fingers still toyed,
uncertain, at her collar.

Thus, Brighid sweetened the pot. Her
tone grew warm, and she cupped her hands before her, bowing slightly.
“For me, Lady Mòrag. Sit for a moment, please. I would not lead you
wrong. Have I ever?” Her heart beat a little faster in her chest at
that—but it wasn’t entirely a falsehood, was it?

“Brighid…” Morag repeated softly, as convinced by her blade’s statecraft as any noble had been. It was for Brighid’s sake that she sit, that she disrobe.

“Well,” she said. “If you insist.”

Morag
removed her cap and ran her fingers through her sweat-damp hair. It
seemed a dashing, cavalier line she’d read somewhere, at some point,
long enough, when she’d had even a modicum of free time with which to
crack a book.

That being said, while Mòrag did look rather
dashing, shaking her hair loose so it fell around her shoulders in soft
waves, the rest of her clothes appeared somewhat more… problematic.
She hesitated, before her fingers had undone even the third button of
her coat.

“I’m sorry, Brighid.” Her deep voice didn’t waver, but
it was softer than usual. “I…” Her thumb ran along the pads of her
fore and middle finger. “I… I must be rather more tired than I
realized.”

“Of course you are, Lady Mòrag. You’ve hardly slept for
weeks. It’s no wonder you’re exhausted. No Driver in my history could
have withstood this sort of overwork.” She reached around Mòrag, her
gloved hands sliding over Mòrag’s own shaking fingers. “Allow me to
assist?”

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’d helped
dress or undress her Driver—especially for formal occasions. But her
hands were soft, her grip tender and not at all businesslike.

“Thank you, Brighid.” Morag responded with a stiff nod. “I couldn’t do it without you.”

“Just
sit, and breathe. I’ll care for you.” Her voice was as warm as the
flames that surrounded her, and she smiled to herself as she looked
across Mòrag’s form, at the dark hair that flowed down her back like
strong wine.

Morag leaned into Brighid’s care, brushing away
whatever odd thought stilled her hand. This was natural, it had happened
dozens of times.

Brighid steeled herself. Too late now to lose
her resolve. It was a risk, but one she’d been considering for years,
writing in her journal, and she’d made her decision.

Brighid undid
the coat, helped Morag shuck her top, and bared her strong back,
scarred in places. Morag tried to relax into the nurturing warmth of
Brighid’s flames. The stones seemed to seep it up, then radiate it. If
they could harness something like that, perhaps there was a way to…

“You are quite handsome, you know, Lady Mòrag. You must care for yourself.”

“What’s that to mean?” Mòrag asked, softly, obviously a nerve had been touched.

“Only that it’d be a loss for the nation, if you forgot.”

Her
cheeks grew redder, and she looked to the side, poking her tongue
between her lips, looking delicate, unsure whether to smile or flee.
“I’m only as good for my nation as the service I can provide it…”

“Just
as you say, Lady Mòrag.” The blade’s voice trembled only slightly. It
must have been Mòrag’s imagination. Brighid was never uncertain or less
than committed in any part of her duties.

She only used “Lady,”
however, for matters of state, and for public appearances. In private,
she was permitted the use of Mòrag’s proper name. It made Morag tense
sometimes—the title. So naturally Brighid wouldn’t use it, would she, if
there wasn’t important business being done? Of course, Mòrag would
always be her lady, but…

“And it is my responsibility, as your Blade, to make sure that the service you provide Mor Ardain is the best you can give.”

Brighid’s
hands, silk-soft, traced the muscular outlines of her Lady’s back,
followed one of the scars down the length of her spine. The touch was
warm. Beneath it, tension melted away. A soft sound slipped past Mòrag’s
lips, and her shoulders twinged. Brighid’s fire soothed deep down, all
the way to her bones. It had been like that, since she was young. Even
against the smooth texture of her scars, there was comfort in that
touch.

“Thank you, Brighid, it’s—“

A soft shuffle of fabric and a slither of silk behind Mòrag’s back, and something warm was pressed into her hands.

“A towel, Lady Mòrag. I would not want you to feel unprotected.” A squeeze, upon her shoulder. “Besides, I’m here with you.”

Brighid
stepped away from her Driver, clad similarly in a towel. “If you would
follow me, Lady Mòrag? I await your inspection…” She strode, hips
swaying, out the door of the changing room, and into a cloud of
obscuring steam.

Morag held the towel to her face. The smell of
Brighid on it was subtle, and slightly sweet. She ran her nose against
the soft fabric… But Brighid was already away, moving at her efficient
pace. Even in peace times, her body cut the air with the certainty of a
blade. Mòrag hastened to stand and catch up, and only then did she
realize…

“Ah…”

Like a schoolgirl, she looked to the side, embarrassed, her… tumescence having caught her off guard.

Quickly,
she tied the towel off around her waist, tucking her cock just beneath
the knot, hoping to hide it while she recited a mantra inwardly to
center herself and relieve the sudden fist of tension that squeezed
between her breasts.

Such thoughts were not just untoward, they
were foolish. Mòrag knew she wielded authority over Brighid, and as
such, any feelings of… that kind towards her could be seen as
manipulation, or worse.

And of course there were other fears as well.

Tearing her eyes away from the sway of Brighid’s hips, she followed her through the steamy portal.

“Please,
forgive me my deception; I was so worried that if I phrased this as a
mere invitation, you would be too busy.” Brighid spoke as efficiently as
she moved. “But if I must make formal appointments and clear out an
entire hot spring in order to look after you, then it is my pleasure.”

She
wanted so very badly to look back behind her, to drink in her Driver’s
reaction—but propriety, and fear, kept her striding forwards. After all,
Mòrag might not prefer she look just now. Poise was very important to
her Lady, after all. Brighid would maintain hers, and let Mòrag maintain
her own, as she felt it necessary—for as long as she was able. She
would have to finish plowing through the path she had chosen. When could
a blade do aught else?

Deep within the steam was the sound of
water, barely rippling, as Brighid stepped forward into the placid pool.
It hardly felt hot to her, of course, but it was comforting,
nevertheless. And, of course, for Lady Mòrag. She felt the tether that
connected her to Morag tense for a moment, at their distance, until
Morag hastened to catch up, as if she feared losing Brighid in the
steam.

Brighid laid her towel by the side of the pool, careful not
to let it dip in the water, and stepped in waist-deep. With her heart
pumping rapidly, so rapidly she was afraid it might affect her outward
demeanor, she turned to face her Driver, her body on full display.

Mòrag’s
heart fairly stopped in her chest, first at the sight of Brighid so
easily disrobed, and then at the thought of her having to do the same.
Certainly it had occurred to her, when listening with restrained envy to
Rex and the other’s stories of places like this. She’d written it off.
In her fantasies, those terrestrial concerns never occurred to her.

“You
know me so well.” A roguish bent to Morag’s handsome smile, as she
careful descends into the heated water, her towel still cinched around
her waist. “Better than I know myself, at times.”

“That, my Lady,
is because you have had to know war, and diplomacy, and statecraft. But
I, in my good fortune, have only truly had to know you.” Brighid smiled
from within the steam, with every confidence that Mòrag would see her,
would know her true pleasure in this moment.

“Thank you…” She said, as quiet as the lapping of the water at Brighid’s waist. “For always taking care of me.”

“And
yet, Lady Mòrag…” Brighid’s voice caught in her throat, as her heart
waged war against her good sense, and for the second time emerged
victorious. “I have come to realize that I still want to know you
better.” This was it, her great stride into the forbidden.

Such
innocence, that filtered over Morag’s face. Or naivety, perhaps. Skilled
in statecraft, no doubt, war, diplomacy, and many other things besides.
But few friends, until recently, Brighid knew that. And as for… other
relationships…

“How do you mean, Brighid?” She asked, in deference to her partner.

Mòrag
steeled herself for Brighid’s sensical, unemotional reply, her hand
shaking lightly with its grip on the towel. She could not. She could
never take advantage of Brighid’s service like that. Not only that, it
bored on a kind of sickness, to have the depths of these feelings for
her blade. Would she take advantage of this woman, her companion? In
some ways her soul mate? She would be less than a beast. Whatever
Mòrag’s own desires might’ve been, she…

Seeing Brighid like
that, Morag had no other option but to feign ignorance of the customs.
She couldn’t hide her shame any other way. So she held the towel tighter
around her waist. Her hair, long and loose, and now damp from the
steam, fells like curtains over her small breasts. Her tongue edged
against the scar at the corner of her lips and she frowned, her throat
tight. She wrote it off to the sight of Brighid, a rare pleasure, to see
her like this. Burning and Beautiful. Certainly it had nothing to do
with the words she spoke.

Brighid stepped forward, until Mòrag
could feel the heat rising off of her, distinct from the water’s own
comforting, embracing heat. “In some establishments, it is considered
quite rude to don clothing in a hot spring. I am told it is because in
such places, all are equals. That without clothing on, we have no choice
but to speak to each other, not as pauper and noble, not as Driver and
Blade, but as true equals.” It took only another moment of bare
hesitation before she offered Mòrag an empty hand, her intent clear.

Morag’s hand shook softly, holding the knot of her towel, for fear of it—or her—drifting away.

“I
would speak to you now as an equal, free from all encumbrance of duty.”
Oddly, for someone intent on throwing duty from her, she knelt before
Mòrag.

“That’s not true at all, Brighid. I couldn’t do half the
things I do if I didn’t have you by my side.” She spoke with an
uncharacteristic quickness, and through their bond, Brighid easily
sensed the rapid pitter-patter of her heart.

Her ears were
burning. At times, she directed her glance to that particular flame of
Brighid’s that lit below the surface of the water like a will o’ the
wisp. As Brighid knelt, there was no disguising where Mòrag was looking,
because soon their eyes met…

“Brig…hid…” She said, the
sound catching in her throat. Her arms went slack, the towel unwound
from her waist, pooling at her feet at the bottom of the pool.

She exposed herself.

Brighid’s
smile could have lit the whole hot springs. She reached forwards and,
taking Mòrag’s hands, said, “See? We are equals now, you and I.”

She
gave Mòrag’s hands a gentle, warm squeeze. “I will not look if you do
not wish it.” It was no lie—her eyes fixed upon Mòrag’s, with the
single-minded dedication that only a Blade could hope to muster. “But I
would very much like to. I have been bound by duty for so very long,
Mòrag. I longed for a moment where I might be your equal, so that you
could look upon me and see not only a Blade, but a woman.” She drew
Mòrag’s hands to the crux of her chest, so soft and warm. “So that I
might profess my love for you. So that you would know that I do not love
you because it is my duty, but because it is in my heart.” Another
gentle squeeze —she so deeply, dearly wanted to look down, to see her
love’s ardor. She knew how brightly her own burned, unhindered by
coldness or by the press of water. Her need would burn for Mòrag no
matter what; but until Mòrag could accept it, she would not look at
anything but her beloved Driver.

“Please, if I am to be by your
side for the whole of our lives, let me spend it in your love, and not
in this frightening lie of duty.”

If there were a time Morag saw Brighid as anything but
a woman, it was long forgotten. Beautiful, mysterious, voluptuous,
even. Brighid seemed forged for her, and she for Brighid, two incomplete
halves, opposite sides of the same coin. And yet, cursed to be put
together under these circumstances, and no doubt separated.

“I can’t,” Morag said through the tension, like a serpent around her throat.

Not
for lack of desire, nor for lack of will. She possessed a surfeit of
those things, as her body evinced. But, thinking on them, even past her
fears of misuse, or of breaking Brighid’s trust, of taking advantage…

She
couldn’t bear the thought that, inevitably, they would be parted from
one another. And as a princess, Mòrag knew, that she controlled as much
of her fate as a blade owned theirs.

She began to shake,
descending into the water. Her tall body cornering in on itself, and
becoming small. Hunched forward, her eyes met Brighid’s. She meant to
say I’m sorry. She meant to say My behavior is beyond the pale. She meant to say I will leave you now. She meant to say…

“Please… will you… touch me?”

Brighid’s eyes went wide. “Touch you?”

How she longed to! How she desired those strong muscles, that steadfast resolve, that firm hand…

Brighid’s
brow knitted. Her own heart was racing. Through the link that bound
them, perhaps Mòrag was feeling that, feeling her distress, her
overwhelming fear and excitement, the rush that compelled her to kneel
if only so that her knees would not become weak and topple her. She’d
never seen Mòrag shrink from anyone, or anything. She knew that she was
transgressing, but was it truly—

Of course, she was already
touching Mòrag. She was holding her hands, pressing them to her breast.
Unless, of course, she meant…

“Anh…” Mòrag’s fingers splayed at her sides, her buttocks clenched and her legs shook. “Brighid…”

It’s not as if she hadn’t thought about this. Perhaps not this, but…

Even
without looking, Brighid knew it was princely, perfect for a leader
whose strength secretly arose from her gentle soul, from her love for
her family and for her people.

And so, without looking down, she leaned forward, and took Mòrag’s cock between her lips.

The
heat of her mouth was impossible—no human could be so warm. But the
heat did not burn; her heat for Mòrag could only soothe and comfort. Her
fire was not the fire of duty, or of vengeance, but of ardor. She
moaned, softly, and the flames that licked up her hair and along the
sides of her head flared in time with her pleasure, as her sheer joy
even in contact this illicit spilled forth beyond her control. Morag
shook, like a foal in Brighid’s grasp, weak and easily led, even the
slightest vibration of Brighid’s moan around her threatening her
collapse. Gentle, soothing heat washed over Mòrag’s skin, followed by
the comfort of Brighid’s deft tongue sliding up Mòrag’s length, eager to
bring her Driver pleasure, to find her own pleasure in the love of her
Driver.

Morag’s hands seemed unsure of where to go, grasping
uncertainly here and there, until landing, still shaking, in the buns of
Brighid’s hair. She fell backwards, landing with a hard thump of her
tailbone against the edge of the pool. And even through that sudden
pain, her hips thrust upwards, desperate not to lose this linkage with
her partner. She was modest in length, but not so modest that she didn’t
bottom out in Brighid’s throat. And her body hunched forward with a
moan of her own, the reverberations of this sudden, first pleasure,
spiraling through their connection and into Brighid’s body as well. The
sound, even with the stumbles that led to it, it was better than Brighid
could ever have imagined it would be.

Her previous selves had
written in the journal she now kept. So many thoughts, feelings,
musings, passed down to her. So many of them had written about longing,
even about love…

But nothing could have prepared Brighid for the
sheer force of the feeling, of the immeasurable tenderness and trust, of
the way Mòrag’s cock, so handsome and slightly musky, twitched between
her lips with Mòrag’s moan. Certainly, a part of her thought, being
Blade and Driver, so intimately connected, must amplify such pleasures,
mustn’t it?

Morag’s nails scrambled over Brighid’s bare back,
seeking purchase upon skin so hot that the moisture seemed to steam from
it. She was so unthinkably warm. Being inside of her. It was all Mòrag
could do not to whimper, to cry out. Her chest felt bound, and her
fingers knotted into Brighid’s immaculately kept hair, caressed by the
flames. Her knees squeezed at Brighid’s sides and her body tied itself
into knots, unable to contain itself it moved with furtive desire,
feeling its own pleasure reflected through Brighid’s prism, and
reintegrated into its whole.

Her head dipped in loving worship,
her tongue stroked along Mòrag’s own heat. She had never thought that a
person must have a flavor, but the taste of sweat along her skin spoke
to perseverance, to unyielding pride and dignity and strength beyond
strength. It was Mòrag, in scent and taste, and she savored her Driver’s
delight upon her tongue —and in her throat, as Mòrag thrust up.

Brighid
could hardly ever be said to have been caught unawares, and she
tempered her surprise with delight, her eyes widening in shock for the
barest moment, but then closing again in pleasure.

‘This is for you.’ Her eyes spoke up, silently, to Mòrag. ‘This is for us.’

There was never, she was sure, a more perfectly matched pair.

“I
love you.” Morag’s voice was husky and dull with conflict. The
tightness of urgency and this wild melange of pleasure forced out words
she could never otherwise permit herself to say. “I’ve… I’ve always
loved you, Brighid.”

That, finally, was a shock Brighid could not hide.

She’d
dreamt so many times, so very many, of the day that Mòrag might say
such a thing. Might stride up to her, all pride and strength, and
whisper the words in her ear. Might take her by the wrists, push her
down onto the bed, and speak them to make her spine weak. Might lay in
her arms, cradled against the softness of her breasts, and whisper the
words in her sleep.

She’d never quite dreamt that Mòrag might say those words with her cock in her mouth, of course.

Not
that she complained. How they shot fire down her spine, melted her far
more quickly than any flames ever would. She felt like the whips that
were her physical manifestation—lithe, beautiful, deadly, caught with
such vigor that it flared through her whole self.

The hot springs burst into brilliant light for that moment, bright enough to be seen across the Titan.

Brighid
gasped, pulled away her head with a swift rush of air. Rude? Perhaps.
But hardly so criminal as to let such a gift pass unanswered.

At
the response, Morag overflowed with desire, groping fingers into
Brighid’s scalp, shuffling hips forward into Brighid’s breasts. She
leaned forwards, perhaps in response to Mòrag’s wordless urging, and let
that proud, princely cock slide slippery between the bountiful swells
of her chest.

After all, what use are breasts to a blade, if they cannot please the woman she loves?

This
rush of emotions filled Mòrag, muddled with her own memories, her
wants, her emotions. Was it Brighid who’d wanted to hold her head to her
chest, or was it Mòrag craved that? Did Mòrag go to sleep at night at
times, grinding herself into her pillow, with thoughts of Brighid? Even
the owner of that body couldn’t tell.

Such manifest beauty, the
scrambling gasp of Brighid’s throat for air, the compressive pulse of
her body that sent a shockwave through the air, and stunned Mòrag’s
heart.

Drenched in confusion, she lost missed those words.

“Anh~!”

She
hunched forward all the more, ratted back into sense by the close of
Brighid’s soft, ample breasts around her cock. Her body knew what to do,
racked with inexperience as it might be. It thrust upward, in a rhythm
just mildly out of sync. She had not the poise of her blade.

But she knew how to wield Brighid. Indeed, it’s what she was born to do.

Manifesting
from the air, the glow of the ethereal whip surrounded her arm. It
snaked around Brighid’s neck, the embrace of heated steel cold against
the furnace of the blade’s body.

“Say it again,” Mòrag said, with a tug of the whip. Her body quaked with each thrust.

The
whip hardly fazed Brighid—it was unexpected, certainly, but it was her.
It was no more threatening than if Mòrag had taken hold of her hand.
And once the initial shock ran through her, she understood the true
meaning of that gesture. It was one of power and poise, but also
confidence. Mòrag knew—she must know!—that there was no threat to
Brighid. But it conveyed a desire to please her, to embrace her and keep
her close.

“Please…” The soft whisper of Morag’s, the morsel of sense that remained in her.

It
was a bit of pantomime, there in the clouds of steam and the warmth of
the springs that heated the chilly air. It was a charade. What else to
call it? Toying with whips and fire, soft breasts and hard cock. A
foolish game, not one played by nobles. All for the sake of… hearing the
words that Brighid had so dearly longed to say.

But it meant no less to her, for all of that.

“I
love you, Mòrag. I love you now, and I always have.” Her throat barely
moved against the words, but they rang loud enough to echo in the clear
night air. She took her hands, pressed her breasts together along
Mòrag’s stiff, lovely cock. She smiled up —a request for permission that
they both knew she hardly needed. And when Mòrag nodded, Brighid
descended, urged Mòrag upwards between her tits.

She’d offer Mòrag more. But one step at a time. They were treading forbidden ground, after all.

Morag’s
body synced to Brighid’s with the words. “Annnnh…” Came the gripping
moan as, trembling, Mòrag released, pattering the insides of Brighid’s
breasts, and beneath her chin. She wrenched the whip, drawing Brighid to
her, and slapping a hand possessively against her back, between her
shoulder blades, as she ground out the second, third, and fourth pulses
of her orgasm. Wet, warm, sticky even in the water. Over too soon, the
waves of pleasure rippling through her overwhelming even the
embarrassment of her sudden climax.

Besides she…

Such a
handy thing, this whip. Bubbling over with excitement, Mòrag drew
Brighid up to her, for a kiss. Their first. Excited and greedy. She
scooped her arm beneath her blade, leaning her back until her hair
sizzled the water. Driving tongue past teeth and enjoying the metallic,
alien sensation of a blade—her blade, her partner’s—flesh.

Perfectly synchronized; Brighid would never have had expected this
from Mòrag! And yet, as Mòrag moved with her, as they twined together
and shifted positions, fluid as a pair of dancers in a long-practiced
waltz, Brighid knew that nothing could have been more perfect, more
Mòrag, than such a rally—than such generosity. Her legs parted, slightly
fearful—but why? She was a Blade! She was fire and steel!

Brighid
found herself flipped, her back on the stone, her legs dangling in the
pool. Mòrag between them, kissing energetically between her thighs, nose
brushing the tufty brush fire of her public hair, and careful teeth
offering sweet nibbles to her labia. Brighid’s legs, buoyant in the pool
framed Mòrag’s head. The tuft between her legs flared and flamed, but
it would never hurt Mòrag, she knew as much, just as she knew that
Mòrag’s wakened passions would never be hindered by something so feeble
as a flame.

Even if some other Brighid, somewhere in the past, had
felt such a thing and hidden it from the pages of her journal, Brighid
had hardly let herself imagine such a fate —and so Mòrag’s teeth gave
her a start like no battlefield skirmish ever had. Mòrag’s tongue drew a
slow moan from her throat—so cool and delightful against her skin and
within her that she couldn’t help but cry passion to the world, at this
quenching of her flames. Her toes curled within the hot water; around
her hair, sprays of puddles boiled and evaporated into nothing as her
passion escaped her control. Brigid’s whip constrained Mòrag, too —or at
least, the clutch of her legs, lifted beneath Mòrag’s arms and hooked
behind her back at the ankles, did.

Brigid, after all, did nothing by halves.

Such
an unthinkable thrill, to feel that fire flare around her, warm her,
threaten to burn, and yet to feel so fully unthreatened, safe as houses.

It
was a first for her too, as well, a certain first, with no past lives
to fall on. All worry dissolved with the pairing of their bodies. They
fit like tongue and groove, and there hardly seemed to be anything
written in some journal that could explain something like this.

Mòrag
thrust forward, hooking Brighid’s leg over her shoulder, descending
upon her in full like a hungry beast, her passion unlocked. She opened
her lips for Brighid, her heart cried out and her body shook as she
thrust her tongue forward, in, meeting Brighid’s cry with one of her
own, muffled by thick, beautiful flesh. Her hips rutted in the water,
her back tensed with excitement. She closed her eyes, and devoured her
love.

Brighid felt something burst, hot and hard, within her body,
as though her Core Crystal were being awakened for the first time. It
pulsed, then flared, deep within her, beneath her stomach, with each
thrust of Mòrag’s tongue. Like Mòrag herself, the motion was ferocious,
but secretly gentle, passionate, its ferocity born of love.

Brighid’s
back arched, almost unbidden, flexing like the curve of her whips in
mid-lash. She could feel Mòrag’s slender, muscular arms upon her,
anchoring her—she was free to flare as she needed.

Mòrag had made it safe.

Brighid
knew, of course, what came at the end of such a climb—she had read many
a love-story, had heard from Nia how good this sort of thing—the use of
one’s terrestrial body—could feel. But she’d never so much as touched
herself! And now Mòrag kept driving her higher, and higher, each touch
or taste fragmenting into splintered waves, the feeling spidering
through her as though it would consume her completely. Over and over,
the waves of Morag’s ardor flowing into her, until no part of her being
remained untouched, until… until… until—

With a deep
purple bloom, her fire rose, burst into the night sky, in a
conflagration so great that only the woman between her thighs could hear
her soft, sweet gasp, hear the name spoken reverently:

“Mòrag.”

A gasp. A whisper. A tremble of nothing more than a blossom on the wind.

Mòrag
was almost knocked back, blinkered by the suddenness of it. Her nose
furrowing into Brighid and swelling up with love. Her tongue fluttering,
touching, tasting. And over so soon, the cool of the air returning, and
the darkness of night.

The blaze ended just as suddenly as it had
began, left Brighid panting on the flagstones of the hot spring,
Mòrag’s cum still pooled at the hollow of her chest, shivering in
perfect, glimmering beauty with the heaving of her breasts.

“I love you, Mòrag.” She spoke again, breathlessly—as though by speaking it, she could make it all real.

With
sinuous motions, like a panther, Morag ascended Brigid’s body. Emerging
from the water and pressing kisses against hips, waist, stomach,
breasts, indulging in the tang of her own spunk, lingering on her
lover’s skin. “Brighid…” She whispered, softly, sweetly. She laced
fingers with Brighid, her weight atop her, possessive, protective, and
her cock hard between their bodies. She hardly thought on it, captured
as she was my Brighid’s face, her breath. The smooth motion of her
stomach against Mòrag’s.

“I suppose I have something of you inside me
now…” She said, with a shy smile, and a duck of her head. Her bold
words tanged with insecurity, proving herself still to be the naive
princeling Brighid had known, what seemed like so long ago

Brighid
slipped her arms about Mòrag once more—how long, it seemed, since they
had held each other so! Though it had barely been more than a few
minutes…

“Fitting, that we should each be part of one another.”
Only a few moments earlier, she’d been afraid to so much as finish such a
thought. But here, along the steaming pool, it felt natural. Obvious,
even. A woman such as Mòrag would never take advantage of her Blade,
never treat her with anything but love and respect. And a Blade such as
Brighid would never treat her Driver with anything less than perfect
honesty, would never mix love and duty, or allow her Driver to do the
same.

Duty, after all, was duty.

And there, on the edge of the springs, love was love. No matter how forbidden.

“I
have cleared your schedule for tomorrow as well, Lady Mòrag.” The edge
of a smirk was barely visible along Brighid’s lips. “We have use of
these springs until the following morning. Unless there is someplace
else where you would better relax.

A smile like that does nothing
if not embolden. How long Mòrag had feared a moment like this, even as
she craved it. Even now, eddied by desire, the fear of what comes after
still stirs her. Well, that was only natural. She was a thinker. A
planner. A tactician.

Thus, her strategy was simple: if you fear what comes after, then why should after come?

“The
following morning?” Mòrag reciprocated Brighid’s hold on her, scooping a
hand under her and lifting her gently, stroking the back of her other
hand along Brighid’s cheek. “I should hope you’re not expecting me to
get any sleep tonight, Brighid.”

She pressed forward, urgent with
need, barely restrained. How badly she wanted this, it was tempered only
by her desire to savor every infinitesimal moment of it, to plunge into
this pleasure, and claim it. To show Brighid her strength, and to share
it with her. To…

“Oh gods.” Mòrag’s bravado cracked, then
fizzled. Her body went slack, and she plunged her head to hide her face
in the hollow of Brighid’s neck. “You’re so… warm…”

Brighid’s
reply was a moan, simple and sweet. Though her Lady had gone soft, she
was still rather firm where it counted. The sole of her foot pressed
lightly into the small of Morag’s back.

With a smooth motion, as
if from buried instinct, Mòrag hooked Brighid’s leg around her body. Her
calloused fingers touched and squeezed at Brighid’s neck, marveling in
the softness of her skin. It’s not as if she had never touched her,
but…

Brighid flared so bright that Mòrag could see her outline, even through closed eyes. She’d never dared dream…

But
that was a lie, wasn’t it? She’d dared, and quite often at that. And it
wasn’t as though she weren’t familiar with her Driver’s body, her
musculature, her sublime grace…

But to have it so close? So present and so dangerous, deep within her…

“Ahh,”
Morag whispered. So close that even Brighid could detect the warmth of
her breath, even against that fire. “You’re burning me,” Mòrag
whispered, overflowing with passion. “You’re burning me up.”

She
clenched tight, gasped aloud, fought for control of her flame —after
all, what good would it do her to singe her new, her first and only,
lover to a crisp?

She clung close to Mòrag, locked her arms about Mòrag’s waist, hung on as though her life depended upon it. Didn’t it? It must.

Her
desire overflowing with each wet slap of flesh, hugging onto Brighid’s
thigh, surging into her with hunger and need, overwhelmed by her beauty.
“Please,” she asked. “Please, Brighid, kiss me.”

A Driver
controls a blade, commands it. Isn’t that so? Yet all her life she had
felt reined by Brighid, and gratefully so. It was only right for her to
submit, in this way, even as she thrust with urgency and need. The kiss
was Brighid’s gift; Mòrag had no right to claim it.

If she hadn’t
asked Brighid, Brighid would have thought she had every right to take
it. Mòrag was not just her Driver; she was her love. Their relationship
was not one of dominance and control, but of accommodation and of love,
whatever her core crystal demanded. Morag could’ve stolen that kiss,
taken it by will. It would’ve been her right.

Paradoxically, to Brighid’s mind, that’s exactly why she hadn’t.

And
so Brighid kissed Mòrag, her lips warm, sharing her heat, giving Mòrag
her strength and power and love. Mòrag would not be burned; Brighid
would never so much as let her flames touch her love.

Mòrag was so
warm, even compared to her own fires. To each, they seemed to burn the
other, an ouroboros of radiant love. She felt cool, almost cold, in
comparison to Mòrag’s furnace. And however modest Mòrag had seemed
between her breasts, deep inside of her, Mòrag was tremendous, almost
too large for her to bear!

But bore her, she did, rocking her hips
back against her, accepting every thrust and letting her Driver drive
her upwards into pleasure once more.

Brighid turned her head,
showed her long neck, invited Mòrag to kiss her, to touch her, to claim
her as a lover would. She felt each thrust rock her body, push her along
the flagstones, shake her to her core. Mòrag’s lips met her once more,
and she thrust her tongue deep within her lover’s mouth in return,
making Mòrag hers just as Mòrag claimed her. Mòrag’s lips muffled her
moans —though there was little sense in that. Half of Mor Ardain had
seen her light. But a lady, even one forged as a weapon of ware, still
desires closeness, at times. Those moans, those cries of pleasure and
adoration, were for Mòrag alone.

Mòrag’s eyes went as wide as
Brighid had ever seen, an electric shock startling down her spine, and
flexing her to the absolute limits of her rigidity. With that kiss, her
body descended onto, into, through—Brighid. A penitent moan, and she
exploded within her, vibrating with excitement, crying out one of these
new, yet somehow characteristic moans, as she unleashed herself with her
partner. Her hips writhed with urgency, stabbing forward, seeking
something just a bit deeper, a bit purer, a smoother need, something
within Brigid. She kissed her deeply, hips undulating, as the other half
of Mor Ardain likely rose from their beds with the sing-song of her
moans as she expended herself inside Brighid’s body.

Brighid’s
eyes snapped wide with shock and delight, her body fully Mòrag’s, united
in a way she could have only ever imagined as a mere Blade. She could
practically feel herself sizzle, feel the way Mòrag created a space for
herself within her body, and filled it deep with pleasure. She cried out
as Mòrag quenched her flames, the fire rising, then dampening, with a
peace and contentment Brighid could never have known existed.

She
held Mòrag close, let Mòrag spend herself completely, and descend back
to Brighid’s reality once more. Nothing had ever been more pure, more
real, than the way she clung to her lover, than the way Mòrag pulsed
warm inside of her.

“My brave, beautiful Imperial Prince…” She
murmured, kissing at Mòrag’s dark hair, more aware of the chill around
her, of the scars and callouses of her lover’s skin, than she had ever
been. “I love you, and I have always loved you.” It was the mantra Mòrag
sought—fearful and peace-bringing, and she felt Mòrag’s breathing calm
at the words.

Brighid closed her eyes—here, more than anywhere else, she was safe, and the world had become perfect.